Ghosts of the Living
by Hikaru a
Summary: EXTREME SPOILERS FOR THE END OF SERIES 2. It shouldn't have been a question anymore. It was obvious to him. So with her fancy-mind-analyzing-psycho-babble-bollocks it should have been more obvious to her.


Ghosts of the Living  
by Hikaru

Foreword: EXTREME SPOILERS FOR THE END OF SERIES 2. This is my way of coping and making sense of the ending. Lots of guilt. LOTS.

* * *

_When the room is quiet  
The daylight almost gone  
It seems there's something I should know  
Well, I ought to leave  
But the rain it never stops  
And I've no particular place to go_  
- Japan, _Ghosts_

Upon opening the door, he was hit with the scent of _her_. He could never really figure out what the scent was. Lord knows he had spent the last year trying to figure it out. It was a combination of fresh soap and some kind of fancy floral perfume. It was probably expensive. And probably French. And it only made the pain worse. He dropped the keys on the floor, wondering if he should just turn around. Perhaps hiding here wasn't as good as an idea as he thought. But no one knew that he had a spare key. _She_ had given him it in case of emergencies, babbling on about some stalker and roses. He hadn't listened to _her_. He never did. Maybe CID would come check her flat for clues. But clues to what? There were no bloody clues. He had shot _her_. Point blank. But not on purpose. Not that anyone would have believed him. Not after what he had said. And no brilliant DI to save him this time. Sam Tyler was gone, and now _Alex... Oh God_.

He collapsed on her couch, head buried in his hands. If it was anyone but Gene Hunt, tears would be coming down. He sniffed loudly, and put his hands down to his sides. Soft material brushed against his skin. Bedding was laid out on the couch, smelling heavily of _her_. Funny, didn't _she_ have a bed? Why was _she_ sleeping out here? Looking forward, he saw the telly. He let out a short laugh. Just like Sam.

But the thought of Sam twisted the guilty knife that was already plunged into his gut. _She_ had told him _she_ was like Sam. From the future. At the time he was so angry with _her_ about that tape, _she_ could have bloody told him he was the love of _her_ life, and he wouldn't have believed _her_. But after today. Knowing that there would be a diversion. Knowing what road they would take. Saying that _she_ had studied that blag.

As he thought about what _she_ said, he remembered that some toe-rag had once told him flat out that Sam told the bastard that he, Sam, was from the future. That the whole of the world was in his head. Sam had played it off, but there was an awkward moment between himself and Sam. Like Sam was debating something. Was there truth in it? He didn't know.

All Gene knew was that he didn't know anything anymore.

Everything he thought he believed in slipped away as he watched _her_ fall to the ground, hand clutched to the wound. _His_ wound. He had been corrupted by Jeanette. That tart had turned him against his trusted DI. And this was how he apologized. By shooting _her_.

He got up from the couch. It smelled too much like _her_. Maybe he would go somewhere else. A hotel room. A dark alley. Any place but here. He had only planned to be here for the night. He needed to see this place again, to surround himself with the memory of _her_ one last time before he legged it. Then it was on the train to Manchester. Of course he would be followed. It was the obvious choice. But he knew those streets better than any he did in this place. And he knew where he could hide. Was that what his life had become? A constant game of cat and mouse. It had been almost fun the last time, but he knew there was a chance of finding the truth. Here, even if the truth was found, it didn't redeem him.

When he had slipped into the hospital, he had been desperate. It was a mistake, he knew that, and his frantic screaming for _her_ to wake up almost got him caught. But _she_ needed to wake up. He _needed her_ to wake up. He needed to apologize. He wanted to see those hazel eyes again. He wanted to be shouted at. He would take everything _she_ threw at him. He deserved it. Anything. Anything that would relieve this guilt. She looked so pathetic, lying there, with tubes everywhere. A coma. He had put _her_ into a coma. He couldn't even call her by _her_ first name anymore, he felt so guilty. Whatever closeness they had shared, he had destroyed with one shot. Like a pane of glass. But this time, he had failed his damsel.

He needed a drink. Thankfully, the kitchen had a full supply. Scotch. And his brand too. Another twist in his gut. Had this been for him? Had _she_ been waiting for him?

God, he wished _she_ would wake up.

_She_ could explain what happened. How it had been an accident. How he had just saved _her_. That he'd forgiven everything. Almost everything.

He couldn't blame _her_ if _she_ didn't.

Emptying his first glass, he poured another.

But he had been confused. Hurt. Desperate to be told that _she_ didn't hate him. That _she_ wasn't fighting him. They were partners, weren't they? Didn't _she_ care for him as much as he did for _her_? It shouldn't have been a question anymore. It was obvious to him. So with _her_ fancy-mind-analyzing-psycho-babble-bollocks it should have been more obvious to _her_.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a stack of tapes next to a recorder. More tapes. Loads. How many of those bloody things did _she_ make? He was right-- _she_ did like to hear herself talk. He walked over to the tall stack of tapes, drink in hand. Poking it with a finger, it fell to the floor, cassettes spilling everywhere. He wanted to destroy them all. Maybe he should. If the squad did come here, and listened to those tapes... Would it make their situation worse?

On the floor he saw a tape marked "May 5th, 1982." He emptied his glass in hand with one swig and put it on the ground as he picked up the tape. That day. He remembered _that day_. Eying the tape recorder he debated himself whether he should put that tape in. Whether he could bring himself to listen to _her_ voice again. Had it really been a day since he heard it? It seemed like years. Against his best judgment, he put it in the player and hit play.

"_May 5th. Gene Hunt._" _Her_ voice filled the silent flat with a ghost-like presence. It echoed against the empty walls. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. The tape was silent for a moment. _She_ was struggling with something. "_I had lost faith in him when I shouldn't have. He is the rock... the only thing I can hold onto in this world. I don't know if he understands how important he has become in my life here in 1982. I felt as though I was falling when I saw him take that oath. I was losing him. But then he brought me back up. Saved me from the darkness of this world. It meant everything... _he_ means every-_" He pressed stop. The click of the machine echoed through the apartment as it whirred to a halt. Why couldn't have that been the bloody tape left on his desk? _She_ would have come into his office, he would have shown _her_ the tape, and then _she_ would have blushed. Then he'd say something inappropriate, only making _her_ blush further. There would have been no slaps. No threats. Only the unspoken chord humming between them.

Letting a deep breath out, he looked up at _her_ ceiling.

He had to leave now. Just get out of this place before it got too much to take. He left his glass where it was. Let CID find it. He didn't care. He stalked over to the floor where he had dropped his keys. As he opened the door, he took one last look into the flat. At the tapes. He walked back over to the player, his coat flapping loudly as he did so. He hit the eject button, took the May 5th tape out, and placed it carefully in his jacket pocket.

He didn't look back.

_fin_

Notes:  
Confused? Yeah. So am I. And so is Gene.

May 5th would be the end of episode 2, seeing as May 4th was the day that the HMS Sheffield sank--which was the same day Gene was sworn into the Masons. Therefore May 5th is the day they had THE TALK.


End file.
